


If I Could Only Reach You

by bulfinch



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Nightmares, Probably PTSD, so soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-17 15:46:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29102751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bulfinch/pseuds/bulfinch
Summary: Aziraphale woke to the sound of his own ragged grief. Unknowable agony still shivering through every nerve.And there were those eyes again, staring back at him. Fearful, worried. But not broken.“Breathe, Aziraphale.” Crowley was saying. “Breathe.”Aziraphale has a nightmare and wakes up to the comfort of Crowley.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 66





	If I Could Only Reach You

**Author's Note:**

> My little contribution to a well-worn (but hopefully still enjoyable) trope in this fandom.

It was long ago, before the flickering fluorescent bulbs and shabby filing cabinets. Hell as Aziraphale used to imagine it when the world was newer. Blackened, damp stone and the choking smell of sulphur. Hot and humid and dark. 

Crowley was there. 

He was huddled on the floor, in a corner of a chamber, the other edges of which Aziraphale could not see. Half naked and chained in irons that clattered dully as he moved. His corporation, or what Aziraphale could see of it, was soot-streaked, covered in a sheen of sweat, shaking. The opal orbs of his eyes glowed like embers amidst the shadows. Crowley leaned his head back against the dank wall, tilting one side of his face into a feeble shaft of light. 

“It’s too late for me, angel.” Crowley was saying. And the room began to fill with water. 

Denial wanted to tear itself out of Aziraphale’s throat, wanted to leave it raw and battered and blast so loud and clear that all of this would halt and falter and break and Crowley would be free. 

But Aziraphale couldn’t scream. He couldn’t move. Why couldn’t he move? The marrow in Aziraphale’s bones was crying out. He called up his miracles, willed them up from inside of him, but they wouldn’t come. Tried to bend and thrash and break himself apart, to build himself into a new shape that could _do something._

Nothing. 

The water was roaring now, climbing up the walls. But rather than twist and writhe and bubble into something that had never been at all, Crowley was drowning, slow and terrified and mortal as anything. 

Aziraphale woke to the sound of his own ragged grief. Unknowable agony still shivering through every nerve. 

And there were those eyes again, staring back at him. Fearful, worried. But not broken. 

“ _Breathe_ , Aziraphale.” Crowley was saying. “Breathe.” 

And Aziraphale’s stuttering lungs began to pull air into them, to gulp in the reality of Crowley hovering over him, skin clean, hair mussed from sleep. In their bed. The quiet ticking of a clock, the occasional car passing outside the only sounds in the peaceful midnight of their shared world. 

Aziraphale heard a garbled, wavering, sighing moan escape his own lips. He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, trying to rub away the memory of chains and rushing water. Crowley was running a soothing hand up his side. 

“It was only a nightmare, angel.” He murmured, softly, calmly. “S’ alright. We’ve made it. We’re here.” 

A nod and a hiccoughing sob despite himself. 

Crowley’s kiss brought him back to himself a little. Renewed him enough to slow his racing thoughts. 

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“T-the water again,” Aziraphale choked out, throat raw. Whispered like danger. Afraid, somewhere in his sleep-addled mind, that he might build a bridge between the dreaming and their sanctuary, as if by speaking it out loud he could make it true. 

In the dimness of the street lamps filtering in through the window, Aziraphale could make out recognition and understanding spreading over Crowley’s countenance. Long fingers gentled over sweat-dampened curls. 

“I-I’m sorry,” gasped the angel, ashamed at the tremor in his hands, his voice. Ashamed that he had awakened Crowley over his silly dream. And still so so so sorry that even in illusions conjured by his own sleeping mind he was not adequate. Horrified, still, that he had not been able to save Crowley. 

“For what, angel?” huffed the demon, expression morphing into something awfully tender and so terribly sad. Aziraphale was sorry for that too. 

A shaking breath in and he could feel hot tears, rolling down his temples like the tide. 

“For Somebody’s sake, Aziraphale,” but it was not angry or drawling. Softly chiding, only, as he drew the angel in, held him steady through his wracking sobs, rubbed circles into his back, squeezed a comforting pressure into his neck. “It’s alright.”

Aziraphale knew he should not feel this pang of guilt at Crowley’s tending. How many times had he awoken to Crowley’s howling rage and despair? How many times had the angel chased the spectre of flickering flames out of wide and anguished eyes? How many times had he held the demon, just like this, whispering calm reassurance as he shook apart?

And that was the difference, wasn’t it, between Before and Now? Even when dark worries, old terrors, or simply the ordinary abrasions of life intruded into the wild joy of their well-earned rest, they could face it like this. Not drowning alone. But hand in hand. 

Together they were indomitable.

Another deep breath in, filling his lungs with the familiar scent of Crowley. Aziraphale’s sobs ebbed. Crowley pulled away, only barely though. Enough to ease the hair away from his face, to wipe the tears away with the pad of an elegant thumb. 

The sadness in Crowley’s gaze had eased too, and Aziraphale kissed the corner of his mouth. 

“Thank you, dearest.” 

“S’nothing, angel.” 

This time, as he lay in the anchoring embrace of his love, Aziraphale’s sleeping mind did not have so far to wander.

He dreamt of Crowley again. 

But instead, this time, the long lines of Crowley’s glorious back were arching in pleasure against their sheets, and his hands were free to roam. 

Eventually, sunlight would stream in through their window, painting Crowley in an adoring light. And this time, Aziraphale would be waking him up for an altogether different reason. 


End file.
